samandjack.net

Story Notes: Contains spoiler spec for `The Lost City.'

A what-if because Gateworld likes to play with my head by saying things like "With O'Neill gradually losing his mind to the Ancients' library, he shares personal, unspoken moments with his team members." This will no doubt be AU after `The Lost City' airs.

For everyone who's sent me feedback. And for J, who reminded me what it's like to be an unapologetic fangirl.

elly427@yahoo.ca
lj: www.livejournal.com/users/elly427


Unspoken

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[][ . unspoken . ][]

She wakes up next to him, hand on his back. One small pale square she has created on the wide expanse, a space she claims as hers, hers at least until he wakes up and rolls over and dislodges her.

She watches sunlight creep across the floor, watches it intrude, sneak onto blue sheets, watches it breech the private little world she's created. Watches it land on him, take him, gild him and make him something greater, something more than she can ever be or understand.

Everyone and no one is trying to take him. She gets to have him for this time.

Her hand starts to move.



[][ . something . more . ][]

She's never been one for toe curling, for coming so hard she completely looses herself, for being unable to remember where she is or who she is with, for only remembering the way someone is making her feel. No. She's not that kind of girl (and she hates how that sounds, because her entire life has been about being more than `the girl`) and has never thought she could be. She is never that far out of her head.

But this, but him, *well*. She thinks maybe, maybe she could be that, that woman whose toes curl and who gouges at her lover's skin and who can't quite breathe, can't quite catch her breath, who can't stop his name from being torn from her lips, loud on an exhalation, who moves against him with no concern for how she looks, for what he'll think, just needs him harder deeper fuller *more*, her hands on her breasts, on her neck, pulling at her hair, trying to ground herself but failing miserably as he makes her feel *so much so hard*.

Her eyes slam shut and it's almost, almost like being launched into space, gravity fighting against her body as she rises up, is pulled back down. Her eyes slam shut and the world is dark, her being concentrated solely between her legs, her breasts, everywhere his skin meets hers. She's not the sort of woman to let out that sort of keening moan but there it is and she can't think, can't be embarrassed, can only feel feel feel him and her and where they end and where they start and how she's not sure where that is anymore as her brain, her breath, her heart, everything just stops.

And then she's rushing back back back, into a body that is still filled and it is too much, too much, and she is falling and he is catching, but shouldn't she be catching? And he is rolling him her them, and he is moving on top of her, so hard so fast and no, too much but so so good and she is finally out of her head and not thinking isn't so hard, just takes him and her and this and *so* good and she's not a woman who comes twice in one night but it looks like he's teaching her and just enough wet and friction and she still hasn't opened her eyes but she does now and he is right. there. and has he been there all along and he comes and so does she. Again.



[][ . making . her . feel . ][]

She's headed to the bathroom when she hears Sgt. Davis over the loud speaker. "Unauthorized off world activation."

It's become so commonplace she hardly notices, doesn't run for the Gateroom. Instead she uses the washroom, washes and dries her hands, checks in the mirror to make sure no signs of last night remain visible.

She's halfway to her lab when Lt. Foley reaches her, tells her the Nox have arrived. She's not sure what else the young man has to say; she swerves around him and hits the stairs, needing to reach him before . . . Just before.



[][ . commonplace . ][]

She's in her lab, has nowhere else to go, really. She knows he will find her here, will look here first because this is where she is.

He walks through the door, and all she can think is no, not him, no, not again, no, I can't lose one of them, I can't lose him, no.

It's the same though she's been having since he put that thick head of his into that damned repository, used himself as a whacked out external hard drive, a memory stick that is formatted for a different operating system. No.

She knows the Asguard aren't responding, was told the Tok'ra won't help, is well aware the Nox aren't around, can't fathom where to begin looking for the Furlings, agrees trying to find a Tollan is ridiculous. Still, no.

"No." It's the first thing she's said to him, the first thing she's said that wasn't part of a briefing.

"No?" he looks genuinely puzzled. It's different from his usual puzzled expression.

"No."



[][ . No . ][]

Hand on her cheek, warm and calloused. Thumb across her lips, brushing across, then back, then across once more with just enough pressure to part them.

"Carter . . ." nearly only an exhalation, and she wonders if it's wrong to hope that her name will be one of the last words to go. No.

She sighs, leans into his palm, lets her tongue dart out to moisten dry lips, watches as he watches. Says "Sir . . . " like he said her name, and it seems right that after all this time, now that they are here, names don't change.

"Want you . . ." he lets it trail off, lets the silence and those two words say a hundred, a thousand he doesn't dare speak, not only because they might not come out in English.

Love you. Want you. Need you, need this before I'm gone. Love this patch of skin right here under your eye but above your cheek. Feel you. How did we wait so long? Hate this. Need you. Love you. You.

*No*. She closes her eyes. Too much. She needs things said, now that he can't.



[][ . you . ][]

He hands her a cup of coffee as she walks into the kitchen, freshly showered and almost ready for today. She smiles a little, somewhat uncertain even after last night, after finally, finally sharing her body with him. They have to go to work, and even though the fact that he might be dying makes a difference to her, to him, it makes no difference to the Air Force. No.

She turns to him, watches her hand set her coffee cup down, opens her mouth to speak, and finds it covered by his, filled by his lips and his searching tongue, so familiar and yet so new.

He pulls back and she is almost embarrassed by the way she gasps for a breath. His hand has worked its way under her shirt and she shifts a little, needs his hand gone so she can concentrate on what she's saying, not remembering the way he felt above her, beneath her, in her last night.

"Carter," he starts, stops, clears his throat a little, "Sam," makes her heart go flip-flop, "we need to fatus."

Her stomach plummets and her eyes follow. Her knees feel a little weak. It had been so easy to imagine the impetus for last night, the last few days, had been nothing more than a dream.

She looks back up; he is pale, his expression stricken. Quiet. "I did it again, didn't I?"

She nods, tears she hates stinging her eyes.

"You did." She turns and walks out of the kitchen before he sees the tears fall as the phone starts to ring.



[][ . shift . a . little . ][]

She's angry it's taken this for her to understand.

Seven years. Six, really, since they've known of the existence of the Tok'ra, and it has taken her this long to comprehend.

One more thing she admires about him, the ability he had to see past the blinding hatred he must still feel (because she feels it) and to have worked with the Tok'ra, consulted with them, welcomed them with somewhat open arms every time they needed something.

Feels the sting he must have felt, the pain she (he) has no right to feel, when she decided they needed to help, when she offered their help, when she adamantly protested that no one but SG-1 could help them (and look where that'd gotten them.)

So much stronger, braver, wiser than she will ever be.

Because she will never, ever be able to come face to face with one of the Ancients without someone having to physically restrain her.

Still no Asguard, still no Nox, no Tollan, no Furling, no. And she cannot sit in her car all night. When they (he) come to find her, she'll have to explain why she can't move, why she is paralysed by this, and this guilt is too complex, too complete, and all she can think is *no*, so she gets out of the car to walk up his driveway.



[][ . long . to . comprehend . ][]

She feels like she should say something, now that he is deep, so deep, deep inside her.

In her head, this moment has never been perfect, has never been about simultaneous orgasm, has never been about proclaiming her love for him as he holds her tenderly. In her mind, the situation has been a lot like this. Something bends and something breaks and something changes, and they change with it because if they don't they'll be the ones to break.

But in her mind, it has never been silent. She's not sure what he should be saying, but he is rarely silent when things are important, when they mean something to him, and she thinks this means so much.

An expert twist, a deeper thrust brings her eyes to his, and as much as they say, they don't say enough.



[][ . change . ][]

Daniel, Daniel is a little smug as he sits on the couch and contemplates his beer bottle. Sad, yes, but smug because he trusts the Ancients, believes they can do no serious wrong. He smiles a little smile at her then turns to Jack and his eyes are full of camaraderie, the sense that they have both been there, their minds so full of the knowledge of the Ancients it seems impossible to keep corporeal shape. Jack's got one up on Daniel in that department.

She hates Daniel for it, just a little, and wonders if that's how Daniel feels regarding the Tok'ra. If that's how Jack felt when she wandered off with Martouf, listened with rapt attention to his stories of life with Jolinar.



[][ . there . ][]

When she wakes up the TV is on mute playing Sports Center. A quick glance at the coat rack reveals Teal'c and Daniel are no longer here.

She shifts on the couch, knows she has to go, even as a part of her, that part she's never been able to bury completely, wants to stay close to him at any cost.

And suddenly he is there, looming in front of her, offering her a hand. She takes it, lets him pulls her up, except once she reaches her feet she doesn't step away.

Neither does he.



[][ . mute . ][]

She recognizes the fear in him, something small and dark, curled waiting at the end of the infirmary cot he's sitting on. The fear that the next word that comes out of his mouth won't be English, will be in the language of the Ancients.

The doctor says that because this happened before, his neural pathways are already willing to accept the information he has downloaded. The assimilation will go much quicker this time.

She leaves, slips out before anyone notices she is so quiet. Before they notice how his silence affects her.



[][ . recognize . ][]

He's such a guy sometimes, and she likes that about him. Of course they're watching hockey, because as he himself said, if he's gotta go, he might as well take the latest scores with him in case the big guy wants them.

He's got snacks, seems to have bought every kind of junk food they could ever be interested in, but he sticks mostly to beer. She roots around under the bag of Doritos, shoves a box of Twinkies to the side and uncovers a Hershey bar under a bag of Skittles.

She's about to break off a square when Daniel shoots to his feet from beside her on the couch, fists pumping in the air. She looks back to the screen to see the Avalanche celebrating a goal. A quick glance at Teal'c reveals he is less than pleased with the quality of the Canucks goaltending. She smiles, shakes her head a little and pops a piece of chocolate into her mouth.

She glances over at him, expecting to see a big grin and his eyes glued to the game. He's a simple man, she knows where his priorities lie even now, even today.

She looks over and sees. He watches her, eyes full of something, some combination of wanting and waiting and something else, and she thinks no, *not that simple at all*.



[][ . else . ][]

He is around her and above her and in her, surrounding her in every way possible. Each heavy thrust of his hips brings her closer and yet farther away from him.

Their eyes are locked, have been since that amazing twist of his hips, and her eyes are starting to tear a little from not blinking often enough. She wants to consume him, to have him see everything she's never let him see, have him see what's hiding in all her dark places, what's slowly learning the light.

Something shifts; he sees it, she knows he sees it, watches his eyelids lower, watches him dip his neck a fraction of an inch. And then his arms are around her and he is rolling, taking her with him, throwing her off balance just like usual, and she is sprawled on top of him.

His hips thrust up hard, and it is she who closes her eyes on a gasp, vision fading to whitehotblack. When it clears, in that moment he gives her to get her equilibrium back, she sits up, braces her hands even as the feel of him shifting inside her drags a groan out between wet, parted lips.

His hands shift to her waist, dig in, press hard, find bone then back off slightly. Thumbs splayed so that they just brush the outline of sparse hair. His eyes fall from hers, dart down to see his tan skin so dark against her pale flesh.

His eyes drift back up her body, lingering and making her blush just a little. Then *contact*, blue on brown, and his face looses its whimsy, becomes wholly serious. "Carter." And it's just a breath, a little exhalation. Everything else unspoken.

She starts to move. Up and down and up and down and up and down *hard*, slamming their bodies together even as his thumbs move inwards, part her folds and find her clit, hot and hard and his fingers on it, rough and still gentle, make her throw her head back just far enough that she can feel the stretch down her back even as she watches him watching her watching him.

She falls back down on to him, and even as she rises up tightens around him. His face contorts into a grimace as he breathes out hard, his voice catching a little on his low "Carter-" as his hips rise up, twist into her and she gasps because he feels so good, so right, so alive.



[][ . starts . to . move . ][]

She reaches up, wraps her arms around his neck and pulls his lips down to meet hers, teeth and tongues clash and meet, all anger and lust and something more, something neither of them can voice.

She wishes she cared that the General is standing at the foot of the ramp, that she may have knocked Teal'c over in her haste to get to him before he leaves, that the Nox who are here to take him, to maybe cure him, are staring. But she doesn't, and what matters right now is that he know, know that all along it's been him.

He slips his tongue from her mouth, pulls away slightly and rains gentle kisses across her lips, her cheeks, her eyes, forcing them closed.

The words are a sigh. "Amo teus." He pulls his head away, leaves only their bodies pressed together. Breaths deeply, then out. "Carter. . . :

She smiles, only because he seems to like it, while inside her heart collapses under its own weight as she thinks *the last to go*. "Sir. . . " and that's all she can say, all of her love and affection and everything they have ever shared, all seven years, expressed in one syllable that isn't even his name.

She pulls away, knows she has to, knows, if nothing else, that he has to so that maybe, just maybe, he can come back to her whole and healthy and alive, and she can say more to him than merely his name.

He lets go, and she watches as he transforms, as he pulls himself inward, braces himself for the ride through the wormhole.

*No.*

[][ . last . to . go . ][]

In the sunlight, she can see things. Can see the way he bites down on his lip, the way he tries not to make any noise, just in case. Can see his arms and legs braced, trying to keep his movements light because he knows she is tender after last night.

She moves, her entire body pressing into him, pressing up, arching her back away from the sweaty cotton sheets so that she can feel him all over, so he can feel her everywhere. She wants to leave a piece of herself with him and she doesn't know how else to do it.

His hand works its way under her, supports the delicate arch of her back even as she feels him dig his toes more firmly into the bed in order to increase the depth and force of his thrust, the mattress sinking just a little.

Last night she'd felt like he was as deep inside her as he could possible be, but this morning it feels like he's even deeper, some part of him moving straight up through her torso and into her chest, her *heart*. She feels like she'll never be able to let this go, to let him go, and at the same time she wants to push him off, away, to put the layers back between them.

Hand on her temple, brushing her hair away and she feels forced to open her eyes again and after last night this shouldn't be such a difficult thing. But this morning, in the light and heat and him on top of her and so far in, it's something completely different because it's not about lust and about pleasure and about feeling *so good*.

No, this morning it feels like what she can't quite have, what she can't quite let herself feel, and even as she moans as he hits just the right spot *there* she can't quite look at him until she hears it, her name, "Carter . . ." and knows how much it costs him and she opens her eyes and sees it, sees her and him and *love* and she wants to remember that, remember the way that look takes her breath away but he hasn't stopped moving and he's hitting her just there just right and her eyes slam shut as the waves, warm and deep, *so* deep, right to her heart she thinks, crash over her.

[][ . unspoken . ][]

She loves him; he knows, like she knows he loves her. She'll wait for when they have the words.

[][ . ][]



End Notes: Feedback? elly427@yahoo.ca. You're my hero.

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